Strangers In The Night

4. 37 Hours, 51 Minutes Until It Ends

He stood a moment later, citing the balsamic vinaigrette sitting badly in his stomach, and turned for the corridor, the maze leading deeper into the belly of the hotel. Ian turned corner after corner before finding a quiet men's restroom beside a line of empty event rooms. The bathroom was empty, radiating cold against the stagnant humidity.

Ian dropped his pants, sat on the frigid toilet seat, and rolled forward, hands covering his face. He wasn't sure why he had undone his pants, but he did it. Pulling out his phone, he noticed the three missed messages – two from the bridal party, one from Reed, and one from Cat just asking how the wedding was going.

Hey, one of the bridesmaids doesn't have a phone charger. iPhone XS Max. Do you think you can go get one? was Rachel's.

pics of the new designs? where are they? was Reed's.

Ian ignored both with ease. The messages made his foot tap rhythmically against the tile floor. He replied back to Cat: it's going great! The resort is really pretty. did you get my pictures?

They are, we're all so jealous! How's Melissa? Glad to see you? Tell her we miss her!

Despite his insistence on supporting Melissa, it hadn't even occurred to Ian that he hadn't seen her yet. She was always with a group, always speaking to the hotel staff or their wedding planner, always in his peripheral vision but never truly in his sights. There never seemed to be an opening to step in and say "Hello" to her, ask her how she was doing, how excited she was to marry Dan, and ask about plans after everything wrapped up. If she needed any help with anything.

His mind shot back into color-saturated memories, of times decorated in light and laughter. When Ian's world had an equilibrium, his skin didn't crawl with frustration and repressed words, and he felt unconquerable. 'Moving was a mistake,' he thought, rolling forward again. His stomach turned. That transfer offer felt like a great leap; at least, that's how his old boss phrased it. Somewhere new, untouched by him, somewhere filled with unbridled possibilities they could have claimed together.

She wanted to stay. Ian needed to go.

They parted ways with no malice, staying in touch here and there before the communication fell apart from distance, time, and life. He didn't hate her, nor did he resent her for staying. Ian didn't want her back, either, but wanted that feeling – that nostalgia – for a world that had slipped away. It wasn't his fault the world had moved on.

Breath trembling, falling to the tiled floor, Ian hugged his legs, knees pressed as close to his chest as possible. Anxiety started digging into him – how long had he been in here? He needed to get back before anyone noticed his absence. He was there for Melissa, and it'd be rude not to be there for her.

He checked his phone. Six minutes had passed around him since sitting down. Ian stood, redoing his belt and going to wash his hands, his eyes fixed on his reflection. He smiled; it fell. He smirked; it failed as well. Ian pressed his hands to the countertop, shaking his head. "Be happy," he told himself. 'Prove them wrong. Show them there are no hard feelings. Show them you're here for her.' He forced a smile again. Exhaustion ached on his shoulders, hanging from his eyelids.

she misses you guys, too! any pics you want from me tomorrow?

Splashing some water on his face, he inhaled and collected himself. "Best not keep everyone waiting," he whispered, swinging open the door and taking the long corridor back toward the restaurant. By then, the main course had to be served, Ian reasoned, could slip in relatively unnoticed.

A person at his table was standing, holding a wine glass to the head table, words flowing like an upset bottle of champagne. The music overhead was soft, almost nonexistent. Polite applause leaked from the restaurant's entry, and another guest stood, their drink held against their stomach.

Ian watched from a distance, waiting, his foot tapping impatiently against the carpeted floor. 'How rude would it be to walk in on someone giving a speech?' he reasoned. He paced back towards the bathroom once, twice, and then took his seat when he thought people were done with speeches. The mains had arrived.

"You alright?" asked one of his table mates. "You missed speeches."

"I know, I saw," Ian sighed, smiling apologetically. "If I'd known they were coming, I would've held off going to the bathroom."

Another coughed. "Dan made such a sweet speech for Melissa. I actually have it on video if you want to see it." He started pulling out his phone.

He smiled. "Yeah, absolutely. And yes, I feel a lot better. I really should stay away from balsamic vinaigrette from now on," he laughed. "God, I feel so bad missing all the speeches."

"Put away your phone. You didn't miss much, Mr. Randolph," another guest said. "They'll probably say the same things tomorrow if I'm honest."

"You didn't miss much. We swear," said another guest.

"Still, I'm sorry I missed it." Ian didn't feel genuine in the sentiment, though he still tried shaking it off. "You said you were a market research analyst. Where do you work?"

The woman at the other end of the table sat forward. "Oh, I work at FireBoxInc."

"How'd you end up there?"

She started her story, long and winding and deeply anecdotal, but after a couple minutes of the story that seemed to have no end, Ian began to drift, bringing himself back time and time again. Even after the answer was complete and the conversation moved on, Ian couldn't help the frustration in his gut building for not being more considerate of the other people around him. The anger of being a participant only in name and not in form. Like everyone else, he was there to celebrate the union – why couldn't anyone look at him properly? Was it that hard?

He glanced at his phone; someone from the bridal party asked if he had ibuprofen. The other two messages from the party asked if he could go out and get some mints and gel soles for tomorrow. Reed had messaged again, saying the revised sketches needed to be done by midnight.

He messaged Cat again, a request to call. Feeling a little out of place right now, you know? He messaged Haley simultaneously, asking the same thing out of impatience.

Something in him ached with loneliness, the kind that burrows inside one's chest like a fox. It made Ian restless, leaving a dull burning in his stomach as he continued peppering more questions into the conversation, lubricating everything around him.

"You haven't seen me in action. I've been bombing conversations all night, remember?"

Ian glanced around, smirking. The thought of running into the guest from the terrace was too sweet to ignore. Something about him made his head spin, his stomach turn in nerves. It confused him to no end. Maybe Ian had so many bad interactions that the one good one made every other ridiculously terrible. Phone buzzing in his pocket, Ian nudged his food around with his fork, scanning the restaurant.

"Mr. Randolph, you said you were a market research analyst?"

Glancing towards the doors out onto the terrace, Ian itched for air and for him, of all people, the surprising, gently-too-blunt-for-his-own-good yet so refreshingly unpretentious guest. He scanned the room, uncertain of where to look.

"Mr. Randolph?"

"Yes," he stammered, relief flooding him as he returned to the table. His phone buzzed again in his pocket. Ian brought a smile to his face and sat forward, ready to answer any questions his tablemates had to offer.

"Where did you say you worked?"

"An architecture firm. Based in Fenway."

"Oh." The word dripped with surprise, disappointment at the answer.

And the conversation fell apart before Ian's eyes again, moving on without him.